Two Pints (3 page)

— Different McGuinness.

— The Provo?

— He says he left them in 1974.

— He’s lying through his arse, so. No change there. Who else?

— Your man from
Dragons’ Den
.

— Tha’ cunt?

— He says he won’t be havin’ anny posters.

— Not surprised, the fuckin’ head on him. Who else?

— Gay Mitchell.

— For fuck—. Who else?

— Michael D. Higgins.

— Which one’s he?

— Squeaky voice, poetry, Nicaragua.

— Is he still alive?

— At the moment, yeah – far as I know.

— Who else?

— Mary Davis.

— Who?

— Special Olympics.

— Did she win a medal?

— She ran the thing – organised it. Yeh feel guilty now, don’t yeh?

— No.

— Yeh feel horrible.

— I don’t – fuck off.

— Yeh do – go on.

— Okay, I do – fuck off.

3-10-11

—
HAVE YEH MADE
your mind up yet?

— A pint – same as always. I haven’t had to make me mind up since—

— I meant the election.

— Ah, shove it.

— Well, it’s either tha’ or the Greek default.

— Alrigh’ – fuck it. Who’s goin’ to win?

— Hard to say. They’re all shite.

— I seen Mary Davis’s
Sex an’ the City
posters.

— There yeh go. An’ Mitchell. He said you can see the house he grew up in – in Inchicore, like – from the window of the Áras. An’ he’s goin’ to look out at it every mornin’.

— An’ shout, Fuck you, Inchicore.

— He could get the Queen to do it with him the next time she’s over.

— A bondin’ exercise.

— Exactly. She probably never gets the chance to say Fuck at home.

— Talkin’ abou’ fuck an’ the Queen. What’s McGuinness up to?

— Says he’ll only pay himself the average industrial wage.

— The fuckin’ eejit.

— I’m with yeh. He says he’ll employ six young people with the money left over.

— Cuttin’ the grass an’ washin’ diesel. What about the Senator?

— Ah Jaysis. It looks like Greece is goin’ to miss its deficit target an’ has fuck-all chance of avertin’ bankruptcy.

7-10-11

—
WHA’ D’YEH THINK
of the poll?

— He’s alrigh’. He pulls a reasonable pint.

— I meant, the election poll.

— Ah, fuck the—. Go on.

— Michael D.’s leadin’.

— Followed by Mitchell.

— No. The
Dragons’ Den
fella.

— Fuckin’ hell. How did tha’ happen?

— Well, he’s scutterin’ on abou’ community an’ disability an’ tha’. But, really, he’s an ol’ Fianna Fáil hack. Up to his entrepreneurial bollix in it. Annyway, my theory.

— Go on.

— People still love Fianna Fáil.

— But they’d hammer them if they had a candidate.

— Exactly. But they can vote for this prick without havin’ to admit it.

— Brilliant.

— But I think Michael D. will get there.

— How come?

— He was goin’ on abou’ the President not bein’ a handmaiden to the government.

— What’s a handmaiden?

— I’m not sure. But if I was lookin’ for one in the Golden Pages, I wouldn’t be stoppin’ at the Michaels. Annyway, he suddenly stops, an’ says he broke his kneecap when he fell durin’ a fact-findin’ mission in Colombia. Wha’ does tha’ tell yeh?

— He was ou’ of his head.

— Exactly. Fact-findin’ mission me hole. He’s lettin’ us know – he’s one o’ the lads.

— Well, that’s me decided.

— Me too.

11-10-11

—
THA’ MUST’VE BEEN
some party.

— Wha’ party?

— The one in Tallaght. Five stabbin’s.

— Is tha’ your idea of a good party?

— Not necessarily, no. An’ I didn’t say it was ‘good’, so fuck off.

— Well, I’m sorry. And?

— An’ wha’?

— Wha’s your fuckin’ point?

— Well, for a start. I thought you’d be happy tha’ I’m not talkin’ about the fuckin’ election.

— Oh, I am.

— Grand. So, annyway. It said on the news tha’ they were taken – the ones tha’ got stabbed, like – to different hospitals, to make sure there wouldn’t be a continuation of the hostilities.

— Well, tha’ makes sense.

— Exactly. That’s what I thought. The thinkin’ tha’ went into it. The infrastructional plannin’.

— The wha’?

— When they were buildin’ Tallaght hospital, they must’ve thought, we’d better leave James’ Street open as well, just in case.

— In case there’s a scrap?

— You’re with me. An’, well – I think that’s worth celebratin’. Cos we don’t hear enough good news these days – fuckin’ success stories.

— So. You’re sayin’ we should celebrate five stabbin’s in Tallaght?

— It’s only a fuckin’ suggestion.

14-10-11

—
D’YEH EVER READ
poetry?

— Wha’?!

— D’you ever—

— I heard yeh. I just can’t fuckin’ believe I heard yeh.

— Well, look it—

— G’wan upstairs to the lounge if yeh want to talk abou’ poetry.

— Just let me—

— Unless yeh can talk abou’ the football in rhyme. ‘There was a young player called Blunt’.

— There’s no player called Blunt – far as I know.

— You’re missin’ me point.

— I’m not. I heard yeh. Yeh didn’t hear me.

— I did.

— You feel threatened by it.

— No, I don’t.

— Yeh do. Yeh even moved your stool there.

— I didn’t.

— Yeh fuckin’ did. To get away from anny mention of poetry. It’s mad.

— Well, it’s a load o’ shite.

— I agree with yeh. That’s wha’ I’m tryin’ to say.

— Yeh’ve lost me now.

— So listen. My young’s one’s youngest lad, Damien.

— The kid with the cheeks.

— That’s him. He’s good in school – the great white hope. Annyway, he has to read a fuckin’ poem an’ write a bit about it. The homework, like.

— Okay.

— So, he’s in our place, cos his ma’s visitin’ the da. An’ he asks me to, yeh know, look at the poem. So I get the oven gloves on an’ I give it a dekko. ‘The Road Not
Taken’
– some bollix called Robert Frost. Have yeh read it, yourself?

— I won’t even say no.

— Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Stay where yeh are; I’m just givin’ yeh a flavour o’ the thing.

— And – wha’?

— Well, this cunt – Robert Frost, like – he’s makin’ his mind up abou’ which road to take an’ he knows he’ll regret not takin’ one o’ them. An’ that’s basically it.

— He doesn’t need a fuckin’ poem for tha’. That’s life. It’s common fuckin’ sense.

— Exactly. I go for the cod, I regret the burger.

— I married the woman but I wish I could be married to her sister.

— Is tha’ true?

— Not really – no.

— Annyway. Yeh sure?

— Go on.

— So annyway, the poor little bollix – Damien, like – the grandson. He has to answer questions about it. An’ the last one – it’s really stupid now. What road do you think you should never take? An’, like, I tell him, The road to Limerick.

— Did he write tha’?

— He fuckin’ did. An’ guess where the fuckin’ teacher comes from? An’ guess who’s been called up to the fuckin’ school, to explain himself to the fuckin’ headmaster?

— Brilliant.

— Tomorrow mornin’.

— Serves yeh righ’ for readin’ poetry.

— I agree. A hundred fuckin’ per cent. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood me hole.

15-10-11

—
WHA’ D’YEH THINK
o’ Dana’s sister sayin’ that her –

— No! No – please—

— Okay.

— Thanks.

— Can I just say one thing abou’ Miriam O’Callaghan’s outrageous bullyin’ of poor Martin McGuinness in the
Prime Time
debate? An’ then we’ll move on.

— Okay. One thing.

— Only one – thanks. She can bully me anny time she fuckin’ wants.

— That it?

— That’s it.

— The first sensible thing yeh’ve said in weeks.

— Months.

— Ever.

22-10-11

—
SO GADDAFI’S GONE
.

— From the chipper?

— Ah, listen – look it. You’re goin’ to have to broaden your fuckin’ horizons.

— Oh, the other one.

— Yeah, the other one.

— Yeah, I seen tha’. The man with the golden gun.

— Didn’t do him much fuckin’ good, did it? See they found him in a drainage pipe?

— Yeah.

— I’ll tell yeh. The last couple o’ months must’ve been rough. Cos he wouldn’t’ve fitted into tha’ pipe a few months back.

— We’ll kind o’ miss him.

— We will in our holes. An’ d’yeh see ETA’s declared a ceasefire?

— Thank fuck. That’s great news.

— Oh, you’re interested in tha’ one, are yeh?

— Fuckin’ sure – the noise she was makin’.

— Hang on – wha’?

— A woman of her age, buyin’ a fuckin’ drum kit with her redundancy – her fuckin’ lump sum. Thinks she’s Keith fuckin’ Moon at three in the fuckin’ mornin’.

— Hang on—

— It’s a disgrace.

— Hang on. Not Eithne.

— Oh.

— ETA.

— The Spanish cunts who aren’t Spanish.

— Exactly.

— Shite.

1-11-11

—
WHA’ DOES ‘THINKIN’
outside the box’ mean?

— You were watchin’
The Apprentice
last night, weren’t yeh?

— I was, yeah.

— Me too.

— Wouldn’t’ve thought it was your cup o’ tea.

— It isn’t. But we had to give the dog half a Valium, cos of all the fuckin’ bangers and fireworks. An’ he conked ou’ on top o’ me. So I was stuck – couldn’t reach the remote.

— Yeh saw it, so.

— Load o’ shite.

— I’m with yeh. But they’re all runnin’ around – the contestants, like – an’ they’re all, I’m thinkin’ outside the box, Bill. What’s it fuckin’ mean?

— Comin’ up with somethin’ new. Thinkin’ a bit different.

— That all?

— Think so.

— For fuck sake.

— Last time I thought outside the box I tried to get off with me mother-in-law.

— Fuck off.

— Before she died, mind.

— Ah, fuck off. I’ll give yeh an example. My young one’s lad. Damien. The grandson. He goes into the chipper, with his chipmunk.

— His—?

— Chipmunk. An’ he tells Gaddafi he’ll fuck it into the fryer unless Gaddafi pays him a tenner.

— I’m impressed. And?

— Gaddafi tells him to fuck off.

— And?

— D’yeh ever taste deep-fried chipmunk?

— That’s thinkin’ outside the snack box.

— It fuckin’ is.

9-11-11

—
SO ANNYWAY, I
was listenin’ to the news there.

— Oh fuck.

— No, fuck off a minute. This is important.
Morning Ireland
, it was. The posh news.

— Go on.

— An’ the headline – this was one o’ the headlines. Italian parliament under pressure to take out Berlusconi. Take out was wha’ he said, the news cunt. An’ he didn’t mean bringin’ him ou’ for a nosebag an’ a few drinks in the lounge.

— He meant kill him.

— Assassinate him, yeah.

— Why would the Italian parliament be under pressure to assassinate Michael Jackson’s doctor?

— Wha’?

— Berlusconi is Wacko’s—

— You’re gettin’ your stories mixed up.

— Got yeh there, bud.

— Ah, fuck off. So, annyway. There’s that. The
inappropriate
language. An’ then there’s the story itself.

— How d’yeh mean?

— Well, the bondholders aren’t happy with Berlusconi, so he has to go. But then I’m thinkin’, just who do these fuckin’ cuntin’ poxy bondholders think they fuckin’ are? Berlusconi’s a prick but he’s an elected prick. Who elected the bondholders? Fuckin’ no one.

— Were yeh a Frazier or an Ali man?

— Frazier. An’ the Stones.

— I was Ali. An’ the Beatles.

— Go upstairs to the lounge, where yeh fuckin’ belong.

12-11-11

—
ARE YEH GOIN’
to Poland?

— I’m only after gettin’ back from the jacks. Give us a fuckin’ chance.

— I meant the football, yeh gobshite.

— I know yeh did, yeh cunt.

— Well, are yeh?

— Don’t think so. It’s cold there, isn’t it?

— Not in fuckin’ June – I don’t think.

— Summer there then, is it?

— I’d say so, yeah.

— I’ll tell yeh wha’ it is. The football’s shite. The way we play.

— It’s always been shite. We play ugly.

— We are fuckin’ ugly.

— That’s it – spot on. We’re the ugliest cunts on the planet and we still sing. Especially when there’s a recession.

— The Mexicans are way uglier than us.

— That’s fuckin’ debatable.

— No way is it. They’re un-fuckin’-believable. And the Welsh.

— The fuckin’ Welsh?

— Yeah. You know your man, the Snag? He’s over there, beside the picture of the Dubs. Don’t look – don’t fuckin’ look!

— Is he Welsh?

— No, but he was conceived in Holyhead when his ma an’ da missed the ferry.

— Ah, fuck off. It’s great but, isn’t it? Qualifyin’ for the football.

— It is, yeah.

— Gives the place a lift.

— It’s not as good as the Queen’s visit, but.

— Fuck, no. Tha’ was the best.

Estonia 0–4 Republic of Ireland

23-11-11

—
WILL THE EURO
last?

— I’ve enough left for a couple o’ pints, an’anyway.

— I mean the currency. Is it fucked?

— I don’t care.

— Ah, fuck tha’. Yeh have to have an opinion.

— Why should I? Fuck it.

— But—

— We were able to enjoy the occasional pint before the euro. Yeah?

— Yeah.

— We’ll still be able to do tha’ if the euro goes. Life’ll go on.

— You’re righ’.

— Wha’?

— You’re probably righ’.

— I am.

— We’ll still be able to buy Cornettos for the grandkids when they come over on Sundays.